


Something Beautiful

by nookienostradamus, Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: The Following
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Murdersexual, Romance, Rough Sex, Ryan Hardy is a bad bad man, S&M, Sweet Serial Killer Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True love does not always come wrapped in roses and covered in shiny foil hearts. Sometimes it slouches in smelling of cordite and adrenaline. Sometimes love tastes like blood and looks like a scar. For Ryan and Joe, that is the only kind of love that matters. It's the only kind of love that makes sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> _Here then to Thee Thy own I leave;_   
>  _Mold as Thou wilt Thy passive clay;_   
>  _But let me all Thy stamp receive,_   
>  _But let me all Thy words obey,_   
>  _Serve with a single heart and eye,_   
>  _And to Thy glory live or die._
> 
> — Charles Wesley

“Oh, Jesus dear God, not _another_ fucking cabin.”

“Because your previous accommodations were so luxurious,” Ryan says, hauling open the door on screaming hinges.

The place smells musty; even Ryan wrinkles his nose.

“And I do have to thank you for that, my dear,” says Joe.

“We’re doing endearments now?”

“We’re doing whatever you want.”

“That could get real dangerous real fast, Joe.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Give a guy a break,” Ryan says. “It took two hours for us to lose that police tail. I could use some R&R.”

Joe huffs a laugh. “I know you, Ryan. Relaxation is not your style. You’re wound tight as a mattress spring.” As if to demonstrate, Joe raises his bare foot and plants his heel in the middle of the sagging bed, earning a squeal. He walks over to Ryan, who is, of course, casing the pathetic perimeter of the tiny place, and puts his hands on Ryan’s shoulders, digging into the knotted muscle with his thumbs.

Ryan ducks out of Joe’s grasp.

“What, precisely, is the problem?” Joe asks, more than a little grumpy at this point. “As you’ll recall, you kissed me in the car. If I remember correctly, you took valuable time away from our window of escape to shove your tongue down my throat.”

Ryan turns, a thin smile compressing his mouth into a white line. “I bit your lip, too.”

“Don’t think I don’t remember that, as well.” Joe touches the sore spot on his bottom lip. He’d sucked on it in the car, willing it both to stop and to keep bleeding.

Joe shivers and bounces in place, crossing his arms over his chest to tuck his hands into his armpits. There’s a dusty old deer skull hanging on the wall above the mantle of the cold fireplace, a spider web strung between the antlers. Joe creeps closer, mindful of splinters as he leans in to take a look at the spider there. He shivers and stomps his feet.

“Any possibility of starting a fire?” he asks whilst studying their arachnid roommate.

“Absolutely not,” Ryan says. “Fire makes smoke, which draws unwanted attention. C’mon, Joe, that’s easy.”

“Well, if the whole idea behind breaking me out of prison was to watch me slowly freeze to death then congratulations, it’s working.”

Ryan only snorts and takes off his coat, passes it to Joe who puts it on with numb fingers. It’s too small, but it’s warm and best of all, it smells of Ryan. When they told Joe he had a visitor, Ryan was not who he had been expecting. Joe had expected some journalist or a psychology student with red-rimmed eyes and caffeine jitters, looking to poke into Joe’s brain to really make their thesis shine. But there Ryan had been, bigger than life even though he is still whippet thin and fine-boned. Joe knows the strength in Ryan’s hands though, he’s felt them as they broke his fingers and sometimes he still thinks about it. About how good it felt.

Joe had taken a seat across from Ryan and tried to hide his delight, but hadn’t been fully successful. All he could think was, _Ryan, oh Ryan, Ryan, Ryan…_ Not much better than a blithering schoolgirl, really. If Joe Carroll was capable of shame, that would have shamed him.

Ryan had said, “Leave us alone,” to the guard without even glancing at the man until he’d started to protest. All it had taken was Ryan cutting his eyes to the side and adding, “Now,” to get the guy moving.

Joe had barely been able to repress a shiver at the smooth power of that.

Once they were alone, Ryan had leaned forward and said, “I’m going to talk now, Joe and you’re going to listen.”

Joe had done as he asked. How could he refuse?

“We’re getting out of here,” Ryan had begun. “And I do mean both of us. I’m making myself a fugitive for you. _For you_. I need you to have my back.”

“Do you remember, Ryan, when I was on my knees in that bloody house of horrors, and you had a gun to my head?”

“Hard to forget.” Ryan had said it with the faraway, ruminating smile that meant he was reliving one of his finer moments. Joe knew that almost always meant a kill.

“Though I was practically begging you to kill me,” Joe had said, “at the same time I knew with _absolute_ certainty that you wouldn’t. You will have the same certainty that I’ll support whatever this plan may be.” He had rattled the shackles. “As you can see, I don’t have much of an option.”

Somehow—Joe still doesn’t know how—Ryan had procured the key to the shackles, and passed it to Joe across the table. 

“I’m going to get up, take out the guard, and get his gun,” Ryan had said. “I’ll cover you until I run out of bullets, but at that point we’d better have another weapon or two or we’re fucked. We’re headed to the juncture of C and D blocks and right down the laundry chute.”

“The _laundry chute_?” Joe had asked. “I do have to say, my scheme was far grander the first time round.”

“Everything’s grand with you, Joe. Me? I like to get shit done.”

Joe had inclined his head, an indulgent smile on his lips. “By all means, then.”

What happened in the few moments before they were down the tiny chute and rushing through the maze of ringing, howling machines to the delivery door had seemed to pass in slow motion. 

After neatly breaking the guard’s neck, Ryan had slipped the gun out of its holster before the body hit the floor. Joe had still been unlocking the shackles when he heard the first shots. It made him almost fumble the key in his haste. Ryan was at his most beautiful when he killed, and Joe had been desperate to watch.

A guard came in at the rear entrance and was half-training his gun on Joe as he fought to unlock the barred doors. Joe had threaded the chain of the shackles through the bars around the guard’s neck and jerked his head hard against the bars. As much as he would have liked to keep slamming until blood sprayed from the man’s lacerated scalp onto his face and the front of that Christ-awful ugly jumpsuit, he only had time to stun the man before taking his weapon and shooting him through the throat.

_Guns. So crude._

“Joe!”

“I’m coming, darling.” 

Both he and Ryan had made their way out into the hallway. Ryan had unholstered a second gun from the belt of a newly dead guard and was shooting with one in each hand. Shooting for maximum lethality. Head after head, face after face exploded into red mist. The floor was slick with gore. Joe had lost his prison-issue slippers. He had hoped he wouldn’t tread on a sharp bit of skull.

There was a truck parked a few hundred feet from the door. A sharp wind greeted them as they tore across the parking lot. Joe had been too exhilarated to feel the freezing pavement below his feet.

A couple of prisoners working in the laundry had come running out after them, and Ryan spun and shot them dead, a cautionary trail of corpses. Joe had loved that. So unnecessary. So _Ryan_.

The gates had already been closing but Ryan tore through them in a shower of sparks, ripping off both side view mirrors in the process. He’d driven until they reached the tiny access road that led from the highway to Sing Sing then he had ground the truck to a halt.

“Just what in the hell are you—” Joe had begun, but then his words were smothered by Ryan’s mouth. 

“Missed you.”

“You’ll do it again soon if you don’t drive,” Joe had said, though he still clutched Ryan close, whispering the words against his lips.

Now here they are in a cabin far back in the woods, as isolated and desolate as can be. Joe wonders how Ryan knew about this place, but then he shakes it off—of course Ryan knew because when Ryan came to him he had a _plan_. Joe nibbles at the sore spot on his lip and breathes out slowly through his nose, frosty breath clouding around his face like smoke. He very nearly yelps when Ryan opens the damned door again and goes outside. Cold wind slaps Joe’s back and he turns to look over his shoulder at Ryan as he disappears into the twilit gloom. A news report said there’s likely to be snow tonight. Joe shivers inside of Ryan’s coat and glares at the open door.

He’s not annoyed by the possibility of snow, he’s vexed as to why Ryan is _ignoring_ him. It makes Joe’s insides quiver and he flexes his fingers inside his pockets, hunching his shoulders and feeling them press against the seams of the coat. He wants Ryan to touch him, to _pay attention_ to him, but he won’t. This will never do.

Ryan comes back inside with another gust of wind. He drops two bags inside the door and stomps his feet, blows into his cupped palms. “Goddamn,” he mutters.

Joe’s eyes narrow on him, taking in the cold pebbling of his flesh, the way his cheeks are flaming spots of color; almost feverish. Joe shifts his weight and the floorboards creak ominously. Ryan looks up, pinning him to the mantle with his sharp gaze.

“Still cold?” Ryan asks.

“No, no,” Joe says with a wave of his hand. “I’m positively sweltering, especially since you left the door open to tickle me with a tropical breeze. All I’m missing is a fruity drink.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ryan says with a twist of his lips that could be called a smile if one were feeling uncreative. Joe is not uncreative and Joe thinks of it more as an amused snarl.

Joe scowls at him. “Of course I’m still cold! I am bloody freezing! I don’t even have the comfort of _socks_ , Ryan.”

“Aww, poor baby,” Ryan says.

The mocking tone of his voice infuriates Joe as much as it turns him on. When Ryan moves to go back outside—they have several bags of supplies in the truck—Joe makes a growling sound in the back of his throat.

Ryan’s next trip inside brings Joe a blanket; a nice fleece blanket that he wastes no time wrapping around his shoulders. He huddles in the middle of the bed and watches Ryan covering the few grimy windows and going through their food supplies. Joe sucks his sore lip again when Ryan turns his head and his glance slips right over him.

When Ryan walks by the end of the bed, Joe uncoils himself and has his hand on Ryan’s arm before he knows what’s happening. The next thing Joe knows, there’s a knife at his throat and a gleam in Ryan’s eyes that looks _triumphant_. Joe tilts his head back to better see Ryan and licks his lips. The blade of the knife is cold against his throat.

“Careful, Joe,” Ryan says.

“Careful can go hang,” Joe says as he moves back, not letting go of Ryan.

Ryan follows, not letting his grip on the knife slip one bit.

When Ryan kisses him, his lips are as cold as the honed edge of the blade against Joe’s throat. He moans and opens to the kiss, lying back as he does so. Ryan follows and the blanket, so recently such a blessing, is now too much for Joe. It’s in his way. It’s between them. He’s tired of things getting between him and Ryan.

Ryan seems to get it though and does let up on the knife, moving away for Joe to throw the blanket off entirely. Ryan grabs it drags it over the both of them with another amused snarl.

“Too cold for all of that, Joe.”

Joe wants to scoff or snort, but the knife is back at his throat and anything he might have said or thought flies out of his head.

“I could do it, you know,” Ryan whispers against Joe’s lips.

“No, you couldn’t,” Joe says back. He flicks his tongue out and licks Ryan’s mouth.

Then he hisses in a sharp, surprised breath as new warmth slides down his neck, slipping over the side to run back up toward his hair. Joe smiles and tilts his head back farther, exposing more of his throat.

“I trust you completely,” Joe says.

“That’s too bad,” Ryan says, but he takes the knife away and replaces the blade with his lips. He tongues the shallow wound and Joe breathes in deeply through his nose and exhales that breath on a moan. The feel of Ryan licking the cut is like sandpaper and cotton against his splintered nerve endings. 

And like that he is desperate to get at Ryan; the barriers between them are more infuriating than the bars and the bulletproof glass that separated them before. For five interminable months, Joe had waited for a visit from Ryan. A call. A letter, even. There had been nothing up until the time of the break-out. Once raging, Joe could forgive; take into account the time needed to plan. But now, with Ryan _so very close_ to him and still playing games, Joe’s patience has run out. 

He forgets trying to shrug out of the coat for a moment and goes for the button on Ryan’s jeans.

“Greedy,” Ryan whispers, blood-scented breath right next to Joe’s ear. 

“You’ve already given me your entire life,” Joe says. “What’s a little more?”

“You have a point,” Ryan says, placing his knee between Joe’s legs and pressing hard. 

“I don’t suppose you thought to bring—” Joe nods toward the bags of provisions. 

Ryan laughs, allowing Joe to open his fly. 

Joe smirks a little at Ryan’s wince as his cold hand touches hot skin. 

“It seems I forgot,” says Ryan. “I guess we’ll have to do it the prison way.”

Joe squeezes Ryan hard enough to make him gasp. “Fuck you, dearest.”

“Eventually,” Ryan chokes out. For now he moves the knife away from Joe’s throat and lashes out with it—a little snake-strike on Joe’s forearm. 

Joe hisses; his hips lift of their own accord. Ignoring the cut, Joe tries to move his other hand down to unzip the prison jumpsuit. 

Ryan slaps his hand away. “You’ll make a mess.”

“Then do it, for sweet fuck’s sake.”

Joe thinks Ryan might have tugged the zipper down intentionally close to the skin in order to snag a few of his chest hairs. The pinching is a counterpoint to the low sting in his neck and in his arm, but instead of keeping him grounded in the moment it’s making his head feel like it’s ready to float away. 

Ryan has always, always done this to him. Joe despises feeling out of control, with the sole exception of the spiraling loss of cohesion he feels when in Ryan Hardy’s presence.

Damaged as Joe is, he supposes that’s what love is like for someone normal.

Then Ryan’s hand is around his cock and he’s arching up off the bed. He grabs for Ryan’s hair and misses, but still sends a drop or two of blood from his injured arm sailing up to land on Ryan’s cheek. It’s almost comedic the way Ryan flinches as if he’s been struck, but the predatory smile afterward would be worth a thousand bleeding wounds. 

“Look what you’ve done,” Ryan says.

“What _I’ve_ done?”

“I told you you’d make a mess.”

“You’ve made a mess of me,” Joe says, “and I hope you’re not nearly done.”

“Never,” Ryan says, taking Joe’s hand in his own and pressing it to his face.

Joe tries to smear his own blood over Ryan’s cheek—the most alluring of war paint—but Ryan grabs his wrist hard and forces his hand down.

Instead Ryan dabs at the blood with his fingers then puts them to Joe’s lips. 

“Clean it up,” he whispers.

Joe flicks his tongue out to taste his blood on Ryan’s fingertips; he smells the cordite on his skin and trembles hard with pleasure. He thinks that with enough of that he could come right there, just like that. He takes a shaking breath then sucks Ryan’s fingers into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them to collect every flavor particle of gunpowder residue and his own blood. He moans around Ryan’s fingers and his answering grin is quick and vicious. Joe cannot take his eyes off him.

“Stop,” Ryan says as he begins to pull his hand back. Joe bites down on his fingers—not hard, only trying to hold on—and Ryan laughs, shakes his head. “Joe, stop.”

Joe releases his hold on Ryan, but can’t quite help lifting his head to follow until he can’t anymore. Ryan pulls his wet fingers out of Joe’s mouth and strokes along the curve of his bottom lip with the tip of his index finger.

Ryan moves away, lays the knife on Joe’s chest, the point aimed at his chin. He pulls his shirt off over his head then tosses it down on the bed. Joe takes his cue from him and squirms around to get Ryan’s coat off before he pushes the jumpsuit off his shoulders and down to his waist. The knife almost slides off his chest with the motion, but he nudges it back into place; he likes the way the metal is warming from his skin, leaving its cold behind in return. Ryan slides back on the bed, fingers hooking in the elasticized waist of the jumpsuit then he jerks it down. Joe gasps and lifts his hips to help even as his fingers wrap around the handle of the knife. He thinks of the blade as a bookmark, a consummation—a consecration.

His underwear are next to go and when they’re gone, Ryan stands at the side of the bed looking down at Joe like he’s a museum piece. He lets go of the knife and pushes the blanket off, skin instantly pebbling with gooseflesh, then he spreads his arms out to either side and grins up at Ryan, sly and greedy; open and wanting. He spreads his legs wide open, inviting Ryan. The heat that flares in Ryan’s winter-blue eyes makes Joe’s cock twitch. Then Ryan moves, quick as a snake in the grass, covering Joe with his body and Joe welcomes him. The knife is trapped between them, lethal and perfect—punctuation for their story, the only mark they will ever need.

The kiss is brutal and slow at the same time; it is biting teeth and softly stroking tongue, a mix of sensation that has Joe’s nerves lighting up. The kiss doesn’t end when Ryan pulls away; he keeps going, down Joe’s throat. He moves over Joe’s pulse and bites down, quick and hard over the cut he made earlier. Joe arches and gasps, the sound trailing off into panting moans as he strokes Ryan’s hair then cradles the back of his skull, holding him closer.

“Yes, darling, that’s right,” Joe says. He clenches his teeth around a sharp cry when Ryan works his teeth against his neck. “Oh, Ryan,” Joe breathes softly. He shivers and turns his head to nuzzle Ryan. “Make me bleed.” 

Ryan takes his mouth away and licks over the throbbing wound. His eyes are glazed, _dazed_ , but his smile is all hungry want. “I can do that.”

Joe touches Ryan’s cheek, lets his fingers trail down to his jaw then back up again. He has such exquisite bone structure and Joe’s fingers itch with the urge to draw him; he hasn’t drawn in ages now and he thinks a portrait of Ryan— _his_ Ryan—is an excellent place to start.

“I believe you,” Joe says.

Ryan picks up the knife again and kisses Joe with the edge of the blade pressed to his throat. If Joe moves even a fraction of an inch then he will be cut again and oh… he kind of wants to do just that. The knife is incredibly sharp though; to do such a thing would be an unwise temptation of fate.

Ryan moves from Joe’s mouth, down his neck, his chest, licks the spaces between his ribs and drags the tip of the knife through the wet trail of saliva he leaves behind. It leaves fine red lines in its wake when Ryan presses down ever so lightly; long, shallow wounds that sting like paper cuts. When Ryan reaches the juncture of his thighs, Joe’s stomach does a little flip when he thinks about what Ryan might bite or cut next—but no, Ryan would _never_ hurt him that way.

So, Joe relaxes. Joe waits. He itches all over and his skin feels like it’s on fire. It is not a pleasant sensation, this anticipation.

“You wanna bleed, right?” Ryan asks.

“So long as you don’t do anything _rash_ ,” Joe says, gesturing at his cock.

Ryan’s chuckle eases him and piques his interest.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Joe scowls and Ryan smirks then licks the crease of his thigh. When he pulls away, he says, “Hold still.”

He glances up at Joe and he nods once and Ryan nods back. Then he cuts him and the pain is divine. Joe grunts at the initial cold sting, notes in a hazy way that there is a nick in the blade—he feels it when it pulls at his flesh instead of slicing. 

Then the warmth spreads, the throb grows roots that reach right into Joe’s brain and curl up in his belly; throbbing, stretching. Reaching. Ryan cuts him again and Joe’s breath shakes out of him on something embarrassingly close to a whimper. At Ryan’s glance, Joe shakes his head.

“Keep going,” he says. “Wreck me.”

Ryan says nothing, only cuts him again. They are deep cuts—they will leave scars and Joe will cherish them. He _wants_ those scars; they represent every impure thought he’s had since first laying eyes on Ryan Hardy.

He props himself up on his elbows to get a better look, the cold forgotten. It’s been a long time since Joe happily admitted to himself that what gets him off most in the world is the sight of Ryan hurting someone. Even if that someone is himself. What’s more, he is content to offer himself up like this, at Ryan’s mercy, for Ryan has made that hugest and most final of sacrifices to be with Joe: life as he knows it. He has martyred himself on Joe’s altar at last; the least Joe can do is to pay him back in kind. 

Ryan is running gentle fingers through the blood that flows from the cuts on Joe’s inner thigh. Then…no— _yes!_ —Ryan bring the fingers to his lips and sucks the blood away. It’s messy; there are strings of pink saliva stretching from the tips of Ryan’s fingers to his lips. Then Ryan bends and licks through the fluttering skin of the cuts at the same time he slips a single moistened finger inside Joe, and Joe shouts.

“Yes?” Ryan’s face is bloody.

“Don’t you dare stop, Ryan Hardy.” 

Ryan twists the finger and words flee entirely. The air of the cabin is nearly silent but for their breathing. Joe pants and tries to concentrate on the sensations as Ryan tongues the cuts and moves his finger in counterpoint, first one, then two.

“Another,” Joe says. “Come on.” The vagueness is intentional. He feels Ryan’s grin against his skin. Then the knife bites again. Ryan sucks hard on the cut and draws his fingers out for a moment, spitting a mouthful of blood over them and then pressing three back inside Joe, who has to take his own cock in a cruel grip in order to keep from coming.

The thought of Ryan’s hips sliding along the accordion series of cuts isn’t helping.

“Ryan, I need—”

“Tell me, baby,” Ryan says. “Tell me what you need.”

“Fuck me,” Joe says.

“That sounded a lot like an order.”

“It bloody well was!”

“Come on, Joe. Beg me,” Ryan says.

“I do _not_ beg.”

“We both know that’s not true,” says Ryan. “You begged me to kill you. Pulled my gun to your head and begged me. Could you see me, Joe? When you were kneeling there? I was so fucking hard.”

“That’s what I love about you, Ryan. I’m shocked you were able to hide your… _predilections_ from your FBI employers so long. Your desires.”

“For you?”

“For killing.”

“Think of this as me ‘coming out,’” Ryan says.

“Why don’t you come in instead?” says Joe.

“Beg me.”

Joe’s eyes go dark, his voice low. “Please, Ryan.”

“Good.”

“Please. I’m begging you.”

“That’s right, Joe. You do it so pretty.”

“For the love of God, Ryan. Fuck me.”

Ryan places the knife on Joe’s breastbone once again. He spits twice into his palm—bright red from between red lips—then slicks his cock and guides it until he is finally, finally pressing into Joe. 

The cuts sting and scrape as they slide along Ryan’s skin and the ecstasy is absolute as Ryan sinks down and picks up the knife again, holding it to Joe’s throat as he begins to move.

And Joe thinks, with Ryan’s blood-scented breath falling over his face and the point of the knife by the throb of his jugular, if Ryan just pressed forward a little bit he would nick that vein open and would be unable to swallow the tumble of dark blood that came spilling onto the blanket. Pulsing in time with Joe’s rapid heartbeat, with Ryan’s rapid thrusts. He could literally allow himself to be fucked dry, and die in Ryan’s arms, and it will not have been a waste. None of it.

There are people who would look at them right now and declare them sick, would say they are unstable, even demented. Joe knows better though, knows that what he and Ryan have—what he and Ryan are to one another—is beyond anything most people will ever know. What they have is _art_.

Joe tips his head back more, fully exposing his throat. He sees the way Ryan’s eyes flick down to that bare expanse and smiles as pleasure thumps up his back.

“That’s it, Ryan,” Joe whispers as he runs his hands up Ryan’s back, over his bones and whipcord muscle. “That’s it, fuck me. _Please_.”

Ryan’s breath stutters in his throat and he slams into Joe, the knife skittering dangerously against Joe’s throat. The blade nicks him and he groans. Ryan takes his hand away and lowers his mouth to this newest wound and sucks it hard, making a bruise around the little cut. Joe’s breath shivers out of him and he clutches at Ryan, mouth open and panting as he wraps his legs tight around Ryan’s waist. The burn of the rough fucking is glorious, the pain of the cuts, each one a burning star that pulses in time to his heartbeat ratchet up his pleasure. Joe does not think he’s going to last long this way, but to hell with it; a man should be allowed to enjoy finally having gotten the one thing he wants (prizes) above all others.

“Harder,” Joe says. He wants to feel this for _days_.

“Damn, Joe,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling; the sight gruesome on his bloody face.

Joe thinks he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“God, I love you,” Joe says.

Ryan’s thrusts falter at that and he stares down at Joe, eyes wide with shock. Joe’s never made a secret of the fact he _wants_ Ryan, but maybe he didn’t know that. This is Ryan though and Ryan knows everything about Joe; it’s like he can stick his head in and peer at Joe’s soul anytime he wants to. He would resent that from anyone else, but with Ryan he welcomes it. With Ryan, Joe has found that he needs it like he needs to breathe.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

“I never expected to hear you say it.”

Joe smiles as he cups Ryan’s cheeks and draws him down to kiss him, to let him taste his moans. He moves into Ryan’s pounding thrusts, barely able to concentrate on the kiss. Joe is practically _squirming_ from the pleasure of it and when Ryan reaches back and grabs his cut thigh, digging his fingers into the still bleeding wounds, Joe arches up off the bed and shivers all over.

Ryan tears his mouth away and licks his lips as he stares into Joe’s eyes. He leans close like he’s going to kiss him again, but instead he whispers against Joe’s parted lips, “Scream for me, sweetheart.”

He pumps his hips and twists his hand around the cuts and God help him, Joe does it: He screams and scrabbles at Ryan’s back, trying to find purchase in some desperate, lust-drunk attempt at grounding himself because it’s nearly too much to bear. But he never looks away from Ryan; he never closes his eyes because his pleasure, his joy, does not lie in the darkness behind his eyelids; it is right here looking back at him with a blood-ringed mouth.

In the intensity of it all, Ryan loses his grip on the knife, and Joe almost feels a sense of bereavement. He picks it up, gently, stroking the blade as if it were his lover’s finger. Ryan’s finger. Ryan has always been able to wound him with a simple touch, a mere look. He is glad he was able to say the words to Ryan as he bleeds; this love’s arrow is sharp and sweet.

Ryan slows for just a moment, seeing the knife in Joe’s hands.

“Joe?”

“Shh.” Joe raises his palm and draws the knife across it. The skin splits and he gasps. With the bleeding gash he touches Ryan’s face, feels the sweat creep in stinging tendrils into the cut.

Then he can hold out no longer and comes hard shouting, screaming, into the still air of the cabin. 

He can feel Ryan’s lips on the cut on his palm, kissing it over and over. When he looks up at Joe once again, a trail of bright blood bisects his chin and slides down his neck, as though he himself were bleeding in sympathy.

“I love you, too, Joe.”

Ryan grits his beautiful blood-filled teeth and gives a few more powerful thrusts before he comes as well. Joe clutches Ryan to him, staring into his bloody face as he watches his pleasure overtake him. A weak throb of answering pleasure thumps through Joe’s blood at the sight. He feels like he is drunk or high, some magical opiate kissed with amphetamines coursing through him and twisting his mind into a million unspeakably lovely knots. That, too, Joe understands is called love.

Ryan slowly lowers himself down until he’s lying on top of Joe and Joe holds him, liking the feel of this better than he ever has with anyone else. Joe kisses his shoulder then turns his face against it, licking the sweat from Ryan’s skin while he runs his bleeding hand down Ryan’s back.

They lay that way for a while, but finally Ryan rouses himself and Joe grumbles under his breath. He was dozing and quite pleasantly warm.

“You just had to move,” he grouses when the cold air slips over his skin again, reminding him that this is winter, after all.

“I need to clean you up,” Ryan says as he goes to dig through their supplies until he finds a first-aid kit and a couple more blankets. “I need to stitch your palm and that’s still going to give you hell. It’s one of the worst places to have an injury.”

Joe opens and closes his cut palm, making it bleed again, the lips of the wound spreading apart then pushing back together like it is speaking: _Tell me all your secrets._ Joe doesn’t mind it, but being petted and pampered a bit by Ryan is nice.

Ryan is still naked and he’s shivering, Joe’s blood stark counterpoints against Ryan’s pale skin, when he comes back to the bed. Joe licks his lips and God, he _wants_ him, has wanted him forever. Joe smiles to himself when he thinks: _And now I_ have _him_. 

“Give me your hand,” Ryan says.

Joe obediently does as he asks and sits through the cleaning and stitching, watching it through sleepy, half-slitted eyes. Ryan cleans the rest of his wounds next and Joe sighs, strokes Ryan’s hair, as he kisses and licks over each one before tending them.

Ryan smoothes the last bit of tape down on the gauze covering Joe’s thigh and there—it’s over now. Joe holds his arms out to Ryan, an invitation, and smiles when Ryan goes to him. He pulls the blankets up over them both and they scoot down in the bed. Joe kisses Ryan and hums with pleasure at the feel of Ryan’s hand on his cheek. Then they curl around each other like serpents bedding down for a winter’s rest. It’s dark now and bound to be snowing, but under their blankets, they are warm and satiated. Joe holds Ryan close and smiles into the dark.


End file.
